


Felt Like I Had Died | Delicate, Petite, & Other Things I'll Never Be

by erintoknow



Series: Aria [29]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, POV Alternating, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Slow Burn, Trans Character, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 11:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19852387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erintoknow/pseuds/erintoknow
Summary: You think you might be in love. What a terrifying thought.Two parter! The 2 chapters can be read in any order





	1. Delicate, Petite & Other Things I'll Never Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Delicate, Petite & Other Things I’ll Never Be]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1MUdi3bvnWY)

1

The first time you saw her face was nothing special.

You were hiding in a restaurant, milkshake in hand. You hadn’t technically paid for it, but no one needed to know that. Charge was standing triumphant, talking to the press while the LDPD loaded an unconscious boost into the back of an armored vehicle. You could feel the thrum of the crowd pressed against the window, the people filtering onto the street that it was safe again. No matter how hard you tried to sort through the crowd, you couldn’t pin down which thoughts were hers. Weird. Kind of scary. Too many people around, you decided as way of explanation.

Still… the way she stood, hands on hips. That easy smile as she winked at the reporter, the way her braid falls over her shoulder. What would it be like? To be like that? To be seen with respect, affection even? To have someone look at you like that?

2

The first time you saw her without the Ranger uniform, she was still in _a_ uniform.

“You sure you don’t want to come?” She asks, shooting you an easy smile, as if the answer is an obvious ‘yes.’ She inspects herself in the mirror, making sure the black dress PR has forced her into sits correctly.

“Absolutely not.” You lie. You can’t go. Without your suit protecting you, you know don’t pass as a woman. It’s painfully obvious every morning. Nevermind the risk of your face getting back to the Directive. It’s been three years now and you’re still expecting them to appear at any moment and drag you back to hell. Especially after how badly things ended between you and Chelsea.

“This whole banquet is as much for your benefit as it is the Rangers you know,” Ortega says, doubling down.

You snort, “None of those people even know I exist.”

“But they should,” Ortega says, stubborn woman. “You really ought to consider joining. At least let us pay you. What are you even doing to support yourself right now?”

“I don’t need money or fame to do the right thing,” You say, deflecting, because you know you deserve neither. You get the feeling Ortega isn’t going to let the issue drop. Charge is gonna be Charge, you guess.

3

The first time you realized there might be something more, it was too late.

After the close call fighting Psychopathor things had been… awkward between the two of you. Something had changed, but even months on you still couldn’t understand what. You’ve been going out of your way to avoid her.

“You should just ask her out.” Anathema looks at you, dead serious as the two of you wait for the LDPD to come collect the modded gang you’ve finished tying up.

The idea makes your heart jump in your throat. “I– I’ve told you Themmy, it’s not like you think.”

“Charge is good people, I don’t think she’s going to care about…” Anathema waggles her hand, “ _you know_. And frankly, it’s getting painful for the rest of us to watch.”

You glare at her. “There is nothing going on between me and Orte–” You cough. “–Charge!” Shift your gaze down to your lap, trace patterns in your leg. “We’re just… friends.” It’s taken you long enough to even accept the idea that you can have friends.

Anathema purses her lips, unimpressed. “Uh-huh. Friends who braid each other’s hair, have midnight pizza parties, buy each other presents ‘just because,’ her mom considers you part of the family already, your faces light up the instant the other is in the room…” She says, counting things off her hand. “I’m doing the math Sidestep, and this equation is coming up Gay.”

You cover your face in your hands, feeling the heat in your ears. “Shut up! I– I’m not gay! I don’t even think about– about that kind of stuff at all.”

Anathema smirks. “Uh-huh. Sure you don’t.”

You want to say something else, when Ortega touches down. From the sky. From the arms of a young looking guy in sunglasses and a corporate skinsuit. “Sorry I missed the action guys!”

You and Anathema exchange looks. “Who’s your new friend?” Anathema asks.

“Oh? Hisashi? Uh–“ Ortega makes a show of looking at her watchless wrist. “–as of five minutes ago, my new boyfriend?”

You feel something in your chest sink. What did you expect? Ortega is Ortega.

4

The first time you see her again, it’s been after years of stewing on your biggest mistake.

You could never be part of their world, not really. Your skin will always betray you, there will always be people looking to drag you back and open you up again. The idea that you could ever have a normal life, that people would ever care about you, it was an absurd fantasy. A dream you had finally woken up from.

The only reason left to live was to make sure that they regretted it. Every last one of them. Make them wish they had just left you alone or killed you instead of being trapped in this half-dead state. You’ll make them pay, and then maybe you can finally let yourself die.

“Ariadne?” You whip your head up with a start. That’s not a name you’ve heard in ages. “Ariadne, is that you?” That voice… find the source, a woman in a crisp white suit looking completely out of place in this dingy chain restaurant, an unreadable expression on her face and a mind full of static.

“Or-ortega?” You whisper, eyes wide. Suddenly aware of how you’ve flipped the plate with your cake into your lap. You knew it was only a matter of time before you had to face her again. Your once friend. The woman that haunted your dreams, who abandoned you when you needed her most. Who moved on to the next friend, the next flame. Replaced you.

Now she’s looking at you as if you aren’t real. Or are more real then anything else in this cheap diner. Or both or neither or you’re making it all up in your head and you want to punch her or hug her or kiss her you don’t know what. You take a breath, keep control, sound casual, not like the floor has fallen out from under you. “Wow.” You say, “how– how long has it been, a– a decade?”

You see a flash of different emotions run across Ortega’s face, visible only in the eyes which still look exactly as you remember. Time may have aged her, but this is still Ortega, no doubt. She approaches your booth and sits across from you. “It’s been seven years,” she says.

5

The first time she kissed you, you’re wearing someone else’s body.

Even if she’s never made the move on you, you’ve been present often enough to know the signs, the way she shifts focus, leans in. You hold your ground, holding back against what you-as-Jane want, or what you-as-you want? You can’t tell. Sometimes you feel like a different person as Jane, and not in the sense of merely acting. Why the jealousy act over Ortega spending time with you-you, after all?

You stand rooted to the spot, waiting for the inevitable. You knew now that Ortega was also into women, as well as men. That had come up when researching what happened during your lost time. Like a knife in your heart. But still, you never in a million years believed that the woman that Ortega could be interested in would be _you._ Alright, not you, just someone that looks like you, only younger, prettier, more confident, less afraid, born a woman.

When Ortega closes the distance, hands on your back, pulling you. The first thing you think is that it isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that when you finally, _finally_ get the chance to kiss her it’s not even you that does it.

When, in a haze of regret, guilt, and adrenaline you kiss her again, as yourself, the second thing you think is that, your body feels the same. Reacts the same. That maybe there is no secret ‘one weird trick to being a Woman’ to divide you and Jane.

You’re just you. For better or worse.

It’s a terrifying thought.

You think you might love her. Still? Again? You can’t tell.

That one’s even worse.


	2. Felt Like I Had Died

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[Felt Like I Had Died]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GbOyTiFiIMw)

1

The first time you saw her face was nothing special.

You were laying on the ground. That sword wasn’t just some cosplay prop after all, cut right into the skinsuit, opening up your side. Hold a hand to keep the pressure on, laugh at your own stupidity. Wait for the follow-up blow, hope you can zap them first. And then there’s a flash of black and teal and your assailant cries out, knocked to the ground, sword dropped. Kicked, beaten until he curls in on himself and goes still.

And then there she is, in your face. Yelling at you. Pulls off her mask and stretches it to press against the blood running down your side. Eyebrows narrowed in furious concern, frizzy strands of red-brown hair falling over her face with no mask to hold them back. All this time you’ve known her, needled her to show you who she was; being a failure wasn’t how you wanted this. Can’t afford to fail. “Sorry for… ruining your mask.”You manage to say.

She stares at you, then shakes her head. “Jesus. You’re an idiot, you know that?”

2

The first time you saw her without the Sidestep suit, she was still wearing the Sidestep suit.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” She shoots back. It’s an obvious lie. No one could be ‘fine’ with wearing multiple layers of clothing in 82º Los Diablos weather. She’s in a skirt that reaches the ankles, white long sleeve tunic with a black vest over top, everything just slightly too big. The familiar skinsuit pokes out from the ends of the sleeves.

“It’s hot as hell out.” You press. You already had to pressure her into this, attending a birthday party for Anathema. “Gonna look bad if I get my sidekick sent to the morgue from heatstroke.” You say, tying your fear into a joke like a balloon animal.

“I’m used to worse,” She answers, vague and waving you off. She won’t meet your eyes without the mask on. Hasn’t since that first time.

“So, you _are_ my sidekick then?” You mean it as a jab, but as soon as you say it…

She rolls her eyes, “Don’t be push it, Sparkles.” Sidestep has never bought the hype you’ve been surrounded in, works outside the command structure you know your other friends through. A breath of normality from before the night where everything went crazy and never stopped.

3

The first time you realized there might be something more, you thought it was too late.

For someone who’s speciality was tactics, she kept putting herself in stupid positions. Like at the wrong end of Psychopathor’s cannon. It had taken dumping all your reserves to finally zap the nut unconscious, but the alternative would have been unthinkable. Unbearable. You know what she’s like by now, you should never have gone along with it.

Push through the rubble, the smoke, follow the pained hitching breaths. Someone is crying, you or her? There she is, leg trapped under smoldering metal. It’s a strain to lift, but you’re able to buy enough space for her to work herself free. As soon as she is, you let the frame drop and pull her into a hug. “Oh hell, are you okay?”

She sputters, pushing herself free of your arms, favoring her leg. “Ow! Damn Ortega, I won’t be if you break my spine.”

You let yourself relax, suddenly feeling the weight of yourself and now it’s her turn to pull you up, keep you from falling. “Hey, hey, are _you_ okay?” Her voice is low, uneven.

“S’fine.” You manage to say. The two of you manage to stay upright by propping one’s weight against the other. What does _that_ mean, you think to yourself in a haze of exhaustion, pain, and emotions you’d really rather not address. The tabloid headlines are already running through your head.

4

The first time you see her again, it’s been after years of stewing on your biggest mistake.

Your greatest failure. Costing you two dear friends. Therapy can only do so much, it can’t bring back the dead. So when she’s sitting there, dazed out, half a forkful of chocolate cake in front of her mouth you want to rush her. You want to punch her, you want to hug her, you want to kiss her. You hold back from any of it. Can’t risk embarrassing yourself. Not again. Instead try a name.

“Ariadne? Ariadne, is that you?”

That gives her a start, pulled violently out of whatever daydream she was in, spilling her cake in her lap. You’d laugh if you didn’t also want to throttle her. After everything that happened, she’s _alive_? And never told you?

“Or-ortega?” Her voice is as quiet as it ever was, tinged with a disbelief that only makes you madder, more hurt. “Wow. How– how long as it been, a– a decade?” She says it with all the casualness of having been caught eating someone else’s lunch, face red in embarrassment.

Maybe you really had been imagining things. Maybe you had just inflated your own importance out of grief. Memory and trauma can do terrible things together. Still. You take the booth seat across from her. You won’t let her off that easy. “It’s been seven years.”

5

The first time she kissed you, you’re against the wall of an elevator, feeling every bruise, every stitching every cracked bone.

It’s not passionate, it’s not sexy. You just… let it happen, like it’s out of a dream.

It _is_ out of a dream. One you have that same night. The touch on your shoulder, the closeness of her face. Her cheeks wet from the tears she won’t admit to. The pained guilt written across every inch of her. The Ariadne Becker you knew could barely stand to be touched, had given only the faintest hints of having a sexuality at all. So who was it that just kissed you tonight?

You want to believe it’s guilt for having left you hanging for seven years, or that maybe, just maybe, she really does feel something deeper for you But you know there’s more going on than that. It’s like an itch in your hindbrain. All the pieces are in front of you, just waiting for you to put them together, to push. To find out exactly what kind of ghost has come back into your life.

You think you might love her. Still? Again? You can’t tell.

It’s a terrifying thought.

You think she might have been the one to put you in the hospital to begin with.

That one’s even worse.


End file.
